The Invisible Persistence of Grief
If you
cut yourself while chopping onions in the midst of dinner preparations one
evening, or if you burn yourself on the oven as you remove a tasty cake,
someone might see that you favor a certain finger, or she might see that you've a nasty blister on your forearm. Perhaps she might even ask, “Oh! Did you hurt
yourself?” She might wish you speedy healing or remark on how nasty the injury
looks. My son is a chef, and his fingers and arms are full of scars from cuts
and burns. One can trace the errors of his profession on his hands and arms. I
have a scar from a hysterectomy, one from the time I burned myself with the
iron. It is easy to see when someone is physically hurt and, for many years, to
watch the healing process.
When the
hurt is emotional, it’s more difficult to track and even more difficult to
understand. All of us deal with disappointment and hurt on a fairly regular
basis. We have arguments with loved ones, we miss out on chances and promotions
we’d counted on, many of us suffer from chronic ailments that have the
potential to interfere with our enjoyment of life. But we soldier on, for the
most part. Then there are bigger hurts: divorce, debt, problems with children,
losing jobs, or traffic accidents, for example. These kinds of burdens take a
bigger toll. Some people never recover from them.
Finally,
there are those devastating losses such as losing one’s home or experiencing
the death of a loved one. These tragedies are like those major physical injuries
that change a person. They are like the surgery that results in the removal of
an organ. A person is never the same. But we often think about these events,
when they happen to someone else, as being a lot like physical injuries.
Eventually, a person gets “over it,” right? Observers can’t trace the “scars,”
and the days go by rather quickly for those on the outside. They may even
think, “Well, it’s been two years already. Things must be getting back to
normal!” But they
never do.
I've experienced sadness before, just as all of us have. I've been divorced twice. I
lost a job once. Both of my sons had serious (but short-lived, thank goodness)
problems while they were teenagers. My stepmother had Alzheimer’s, and now so
does my mother. My dad died just months after I moved back to the U.S. from
Australia. I have health problems that promise only to get worse. Those I have
learned to deal with. I’m not generally a morose person. Then 2011 dawned.
In July
that year, while visiting family in Houston, our house burned to the ground. It wasn't like those times you see on the news when people sort through the rubble
and find cherished photo albums and souvenirs that miraculously were saved. We
lost everything. Oh, I did find some books that were packed tightly in a box
that were only singed and reek of smoke. My husband found some of his medals he
earned while serving in the Marine Corps. (I never found mine from my U.S. Navy
service.) But we lost baby photos (ours and our children’s); I lost all the
letters my husband ever wrote to me, since the 1970s. He lost photographs he’d
taken in Vietnam and during a Mediterranean cruise. When my dad died, I bought
a lot of his furniture at the estate sale and furnished our house with it.
Jewelry, original art, family heirlooms, his daughters’ childhood relics, my
husband’s gun collection worth thousands of dollars.
Something
like that changes a person. We like to visit antique stores and go to auctions.
While looking things over, I often remark, I used to have something just like
that. Once my younger son said, “Mom! You always say that!” I replied, “Because
it’s true.” These days, we’re in a brand new house we built. It is full of
furniture, jewelry, even some artwork. Friends and family sent me copies of a
few of the photographs I thought were gone forever. And of course, I had some
photos in “the cloud.” But now, it’s all become blurred, and I sometimes
wonder, when I think I’d like to use a certain tool or wear an item of
clothing, or share a photo with someone, “Do I really have that; or was it one
of the things lost in the fire?” I met a man last weekend who said his house
had burned to the ground 25 years ago. “You never get over that,” he said.
Then five
months later, as if life hadn't smacked me around enough, my older son was
killed in a senseless traffic accident that wasn't even his fault. One moment,
we were planning to drive to Georgia to spend Christmas with him, and the next
moment he didn't exist anymore. One day, I had two successful, handsome, loving
sons, and the next day I had only one. I live that moment over, again and
again, when my husband got off the phone and tried to find the words to tell me
what had happened. And once again, there is this painful, tearing, destructive,
almost audible break in my heart. There is no memory in my life that is more
vivid, besides the moments my two sons were born. That changes a person. You
never get over that.
But I’m
not physically hurt. I have no scars. (Except I can see the circles under my
eyes because I haven’t slept well in two years.) Most days, I’m pretty
cheerful; I do my job (because I love it and because people are counting on
me); I cook, clean house, do laundry, because these chores don’t “do”
themselves and my husband has enough to do. I have helped him raise two orphan
kittens in as many years, and we got a puppy. Because life goes on, and curling
up in the fetal position and crying all day won’t bring my son back. Because
when I do surrender to the overwhelming grief, I know how disappointed John
would be that he might be the cause of that. I carry on.
And
sometimes people mistake carrying on for “getting over it” or getting better.
And that is a mistake. Most days, it takes all my concentration to get up, get
dressed, and go through the day as if
things were going well. So if you wonder why I don’t phone, why I don’t get out
more, why I don’t visit, why I don’t take up a hobby, why…just why, I’ll tell
you why. Because I am moments away from reliving that moment when my husband
stood before me and said, “There’s been an accident.” I’m imagining my
firstborn son, being propelled off his motorcycle, flying through the air, and
hitting the windscreen column of a damned minivan with his chest, landing face
down on the cold, wet pavement, his aorta cut open, and the life and love
rushing out of him, hundreds of miles away from me. I’m here at home trying to
remember if the green sweater that I thought I’d wear today is one I really
have or one that is a pile of ashes, blowing around the Waco landfill. I’m
having an internal argument with myself, trying to find the fortitude to get up
and do the laundry, buy groceries, or look forward to a holiday. I’m trying to
be present and cheerful because I still have a successful, handsome, loving
son, and I don’t want him to see me fall apart. Because I’m his mother, and I’m
stronger than that.
So I’m
sorry if I don’t call or have somehow failed in my relationship with you. But
this is the new me. I’m not sure I like her very much, and we’re working on
that. But what you cannot see, that I see when I close my eyes, is the giant
scar that is the transection that separates life before the fire and John’s
death and after the fire and John’s death. This scar is where the cosmos
reached in, as deftly as any surgeon, and broke my heart. And I offer this
meditation not just for me, but for all of us who are struggling to live a
normal life in the face of overwhelming grief – for my neighbor who lost her
husband, for those folks in Bastrop who lost their homes the same year we lost
ours, for my aunt who has lost two sons, for the families of those who died in
West last year, for my ex-husband’s niece who lost her husband, for my friend
who has been in and out of the hospital since October last year…this is for all
of us. We didn't choose this; it happened. We carry on. But don’t imagine that
we will ever get over it. Life will never be the same.
Comments